The Goodbye Body (27 page)

“Very impressive,” I said, clapping. “Original, dramatic, and entertaining.”

Caron glared at me. “It’s supposed to be a parody.”

“And amusing,” I added quickly.

Inez wiped her glasses on her shirt, resettled them, and gave me a baleful look. “Do you think everybody’s going to accuse us of being lesbians?”

“Everybody being Rhonda Maguire?”

Caron flung herself onto the sofa. “Everybody, as in everybody at the high school.”

Maternal wisdom failed me. “I don’t know. I would think that emphasizing that it’s a parody ought to preclude that. Maybe if you look less serious, throw a few winks at the audience and ham it up, they’ll realize it’s a joke. After all the teen diva look-alikes, you’ll be like a cool breeze sweeping through the food court. The judges will love it, even if you make a few wrong moves and stomp on each other’s feet. Pretend that you rehearsed it that way.”

“Yeah, right,” Caron said morosely. She clutched a pillow and buried her face in it. Inez blinked a few times, then sat down on the ottoman and stared at the rug. I wasn’t sure what to say; I’d either failed to offer the proper encouragement or insulted them by suggesting that they ought to act like buffoons. Dr. Spock had never dedicated a chapter to a quandary such as this.

“You can always change your mind,” I said. “If you don’t want to participate in the talent contest, then don’t do it.”

When I received no response, I retreated to the patio and stared at the placid surface of the pool. The girls were too old for me to make their decisions. Peter and I would have to make some of our own, but I refused to think about it until the case was resolved and I no longer had to worry about New York mobsters and .22 caliber bullets. Dolly Barlucci was history. When her lease expired, the agent would have the personal items stored and start showing the house to newly tenured professors and franchise moguls. Caron and I would return to our apartment, and eventually stop imagining the worst with every minuscule sound from another room.

I was annoyed that Peter had failed to take even minimal interest in Cal. He was involved, I told myself. Of course, I had no idea why, but if Peter wouldn’t find out, then I had no choice but to look into it myself. It could hardly be construed as meddling, since I’d freely shared the information. The Farberville CID was obligated to move slowly and relentlessly, but I’d always held the tortoise in contempt, even as a child.

I went inside, picked up my purse, and continued to the den. Caron and Inez were scmnched on opposite ends of the sofa, presumably enthralled by men in black shirts and fedoras hauling bodies out onto a pier. Neither responded when I told them I was going out for a while. The police car was parked in the driveway, the driver reading what appeared to be a comic book and his partner snoring. I knocked on the window until they roused themselves, then told them I was going to the grocery store. This seemed to cause no consternation.

The parking lot of the Fritz Motel was empty, and the sign in the window promised vacancies. I went inside, where I found the orange-haired woman watching a cartoon show on the TV set. She was so engrossed that I had to tap on the counter to get her attention.

“Hi,” I said, almost chirping. “Remember me?”

“Yeah, sure, you were here yesterday, right? You were asking about the guy in number eleven, Mr. Mordella. You ever find him?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “Now I’m looking for a man named Cal. Is he staying here?”

“Nobody’s staying here right now. The truckers and the salesmen try to get home on weekends. This being Saturday, I’ll probably get some college boys who’ve paid for the services of the ladies over at the truck stop. You’re not undercover vice, are you?”

“No, most definitely not. Has anyone named Cal stayed here in the last week or so? He’s black, in his eighties, with gray hair.”

She took a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it. “I don’t rent to coloreds. You got a problem with that?”

I was not inclined to engage in an argument about civil rights and illegal discrimination. “He gave me this number, so I assumed—”

“You assumed wrong.”

I returned to my car to think. Cal was a dead end, at least for the time being. I could hardly spend the rest of the afternoon driving around Farberville in hopes of spotting a white van with a rose painted on it. If the rose hadn’t been scrubbed off along with the mud. There was no point in going to the student union. A few students might be shooting pool and hanging out in the lounge, but the offices would be closed.

However, it was a lovely day, the sort that sends children and their parents to the park and bicyclists out to pedal to their hearts’ content. And golfers to the links to hit balls into the ponds and sandboxes.

I headed for the country club.

Cookie-cutter condos lined three sides of the golf course; the fourth was delineated by a creek and a bluff. I drove through the parking areas, looking for a car with Virginia plates. Other states were sporadically represented, but not the one I’d hope to spot. Gary had never mentioned his home state.

I pulled into the parking lot in front of the clubhouse and drove up and down the rows until I’d ascertained that Daniel and Lucy’s car was not there. A gravel path, wide enough for golf carts, led toward the pro shop. Access roads to the maintenance buildings and the golf course had a separate, unseen entrance. I could think of no reason to walk down to wherever Dolly’s Mercedes had been found, since it would have been towed away before the course opened for the day. It was highly unlikely that Sara Louise’s purse, the car key, and the gun would be glinting in the grass.

I parked between a black BMW and a gold Cadillac. As I walked toward the main entrance, a beep sounded behind me. I glanced back, then leapt out of the way as a golf cart carrying two very convivial male golfers tore past me in the direction of the condos. “Pardon our dust!” called the passenger as they careened around a corner. Clearly, the bar was open and business was brisk.

I wasn’t sure of the etiquette required to stroll into the clubhouse. There was no sign with a reminder that only members were allowed inside and that interlopers would be beaten senseless with golf clubs and tennis rackets. I interloped into a wide hallway, expecting to find a tactfully dressed security guard with a list of bona fide members and invited guests. If such a guard existed, he was not on duty. A foursome of tanned women came past me, jabbering among themselves. A sullen man dressed in a lime green shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts brushed my shoulder as he headed for the door. In the main room, which was large enough for formal balls and Republican Party fund-raisers, a scattering of people were seated on leather sofas and chairs. The plants were exuding oxygen, and the artwork on the walls was original. Syrupy music played in the background. A dark-skinned waiter in a white jacket collected glasses from the coffee tables and replaced ashtrays. Two teenaged girls murmured into cell phones as they strolled through the room; I wondered if they were talking to each other. I drew no more attention than a shopper at a post-Christmas sale.

On the far side of the room was a long, screened-in porch that presented a view of undulating vegetation and the eighteenth green. Several tables were occupied by grim-faced bridge players, mostly women. Others were occupied by less-competitive members eating lunch. Another waiter was taking orders from those reading newspapers or gazing at the golf course. It was all very genteel. Had the green been replaced with a croquet court, the setting would have been perfect for a weekend party at a country house down the lane from St. Mary Mead.

As I went onto the porch, I could hear thwacks from a tennis court and whoops and splashes from a swimming pool. An outburst of profanity came from one of the golfers on the green; none of the bridge players looked up from his or her cards. Lucy was not among them, nor was Daniel puttering around the putting green.

I was about to give up when Gary Billings came through a door at the opposite end of the porch. He was dressed in white shorts and a shirt, and carried a tennis racket, leading me to astutely deduce that he’d been responsible for some of the thwacks. He spotted me and waved, then said something to a voluptuous young blonde in a skimpy tennis dress. She nodded in response, shot me a venomous look, and ambled into the clubhouse proper.

Gary joined me and pulled out a chair. “Lucy told me about last night,” he began with great earnestness. “How horrible for you.” He beckoned to the waiter. “What would you like to drink?”

“Club soda and lime,” I said.

Once he’d ordered two of them, he leaned forward and said, “You can imagine how distressed everyone here is. There was talk this morning of a membership meeting to discuss increasing security at night. One couple renting a condo packed up and left after the police questioned them. Nothing this exciting has happened since a caddy was bitten by a water moccasin and had the audacity to drop the bag he was carrying in order to go to the emergency room.”

“Everyone seems to be holding up pretty well.”

“Well, yes, but there’s a lot of anxiety. Do the police have any leads? Did they find the gun?”

“I don’t have a badge, so I’m not privy to the reports. Did you happen to see or hear anything last night?”

He batted his eyelashes like an abashed choirboy. It was a well-rehearsed gesture that had no doubt set many an heiress’s heart aflutter. “I went for a walk with a divorcee from Chicago. She was dizzy and needed some fresh air. I heard a noise that could have been from a gun, although it never crossed my mind at the time. I told the police I thought it was about eight o’clock, give or take a few minutes. When the damsel in distress felt better, we returned to the Hoods’ condo in time for dinner. You really should have come, Claire. The level of banality was enough to ruin my appetite.”

“Did you later go to the pro shop with Lucy and Daniel?”

“No, I wanted to watch the ten o’clock news. These people are more interested in gossip than international affairs.”

“What did you expect when you rented the condo— evening lectures on the GNP and Greenspan’s latest assessment? Seminars on bioethics? Slide shows on poverty in India and environmental destruction in Appalachia? Why did you rent the condo, Gary? You don’t even play golf.”

“Just on a whim. I’ve never been to this part of the country.”

“And I’ve never been to Mongolia.” I crossed my arms and stared at him. “You came because of Dolly, didn’t you? A hitman for the Velocchio family? Are you on retainer, or do you prefer to work as a freelancer?” Raising my voice, I began to sing, “Here a hit, there a hit, everywhere a hit-hit… Don Velocchio had a mob—”

Gary grabbed my wrist. “Why don’t we continue this conversation elsewhere?”

I resisted his attempt to pull me up. “I’m not inclined to take a hike with you in the woods, if that’s what you’re suggesting. No one’s paying any attention to us. You know, you’re not at all what I envision a hitman to look like, but my experience is limited to fiction. Maybe that’s what accounts for your success. What do you think?”

“I am not a hitman,” he growled.

“You’re hardly going to admit it,” I said lightly. “You really ought to make an effort not to frown like that. One of these days the wrinkles will persist and you’ll have to take the Botox route.” I allowed him to smolder for a moment, then added, “If you’re not a hitman, then you must be an FBI agent. Did you come to Farberville to keep an eye on Dolly Goforth, aka Doris Barlucci? I suppose that means you knew the Velocchio family had sent some representatives of its own to find her.”

“I thought you were an innocent bookseller rather than a conspiracy nutcase.”

I stiffened. “I thought you were a shallow womanizer rather than a quasi-successful undercover operative. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“All right,” he said, still sounding a bit grouchy, “I don’t suppose it can hurt to tell you that I am with the FBI. After Bibi Barlucci’s death, we advised Dolly to enter the witness protection program as a precaution. She persuaded the marshals to let her relocate here. When we got word last week that the Velocchio family might be on her trail, I was sent down to assess the situation.”

“Let me see your badge.”

He took his wallet out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “Try to be discreet.”

“I am always discreet.” I flipped open his wallet. His FBI badge looked authentic, but I had nothing with which to compare it. “If I copy the number and call the headquarters in DC, will they confirm your identity?”

“What do you think?”

“Will they confirm it for Lieutenant Rosen?”

Gary nodded. “I’m planning to drop by his office later today and have a word with him. It’s imperative that I find out where Dolly is. So far, I’ve just been sitting back and waiting, but it’s time for the Bureau to intervene.”

I had a feeling Peter would not go quietly into the night. “Why is it imperative that you find Dolly? She’s not going to testify in front of the grand jury. When she called this morning, she acknowledged that Bibi worked for the mob, but was adamant that she herself knew nothing about what he did. Why are the Velocchios so worried about her?”

“She called this morning? From where?”

“Miami. You didn’t answer my questions.”

“No,” he said, “and I’m not going to. The less you know, the better.” He signaled to a hovering waiter. “I’m ready for something more potent. How about you?”

I agreed to a vodka and tonic. Once the waiter was gone, I said, “Then we won’t talk about Dolly. It’s obvious that Petti Mordella came to Farberville to warn her about somebody, and then was killed. She swore that neither of them was aware that Sara Louise and Madison were headed this way. Were you?”

“You’re relentless. If I were an antelope and you were a lioness, I’d just flop down in the grass and expose my throat.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Madison’s father works for the Velocchios, and I assume Sara Louise’s father does as well. That makes the girls third-generation, born and bred in the USA, homogenized and sanitized, sent to college instead of Italian cooking school. Is feminism impinging on tradition?”

“From what I’ve heard, they weren’t sent here on official business. I don’t know about Madison’s motives, but in Sara Louise’s case, she’s determined to make a place for herself in the hierarchy. She needs approval from the old man and his most trusted advisers.”

“So she came here to kill Dolly?”

He winced, then looked over his shoulder at the bridge players. “No, that’s not why she came. Why don’t we discuss bestsellers or movies, or even birds? For lack of anything else to do, I’ve been studying the field guide. Did you know that nuthatches are among the few species than can creep down tree trunks?”

“I’d rather speculate.” I waited while the waiter put down fresh drinks and whisked away our empty glasses. “If Petti wasn’t aware of the impending arrival of Sara Louise and Madison, he must have had someone else in mind. Will you swear that you’re not an FBI agent who moonlights as a hitman?”

“I swear.” He appeared to be getting frustrated, although I couldn’t imagine why, since my question was infinitely reasonable. “And before you ask, I have no idea who killed Sara Louise. I was at the party, took a walk with a slightly inebriated woman, and returned in time for ribs and baked beans. I told the police the woman’s name, and she confirmed the story. You’ve disliked me from the first day I came into the bookstore. Now that I’ve admitted I work for a big, bad government agency, you probably loathe me. There’s nothing I can say or do to make you trust me.”

“You could stop groveling,” I said. “That won’t make me trust you, but I might feel less antagonistic. I don’t like to be used. Did you think my heart would go pitter-patter because you feigned attraction?”

“Your boyfriend cop’s name didn’t appear in the brief. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come on so strong.”

“The brief?”

“I had you checked out the day you moved into Dolly’s house. It’s standard procedure. I only know the bare facts about your childhood, but I have your college transcript, a copy of your marriage license, the police report of your husband’s fatal accident, your voting record, your credit report, your bank balance—which is less than robust—the names of your friends, and copies of the newspaper stories concerning your frequent intrusions into official investigations.”

“You found all this out the day I moved into Dolly’s house?” I asked incredulously. “Were you spying on the house?”

Gary shrugged. “Let’s say it was under surveillance.”

I was too stunned to be properly outraged. “Were you perched on a roof with a pair of binoculars?”

“These days we’re a little more sophisticated than that.”

“Is the house bugged? Are there hidden cameras in the bathrooms? Did you entertain yourself watching me in the Jacuzzi this morning—or do you prefer watching teenaged girls take showers?” I pushed aside my glass. “I think I’d better go. Thanks for the drink.”

Rather than protest, he stood up and said, “We must do this again sometime.”

I wanted to slap the smirk off his face, but instead stalked out of the clubhouse and floundered around the parking lot until I found my car (which was, of course, precisely where I’d left it). A good deal of proper outrage ensued. I didn’t really believe there were cameras in the bathrooms, but I felt violated. All he’d done was snap his fingers and my curriculum vitae was laid open like the morning newspaper. Did the government know that I’d smoked pot in college? That I’d sweet-talked myself out of a speeding ticket three years ago? That I’d written a letter to my senator protesting one of her votes? That I’d fudged my business expenses?

Gary must have been disappointed with my “brief,” which didn’t sound as though it had been all that brief. After all, I’d never been arrested, joined the Communist Party, been suspected of trafficking in cocaine, smuggled illegal immigrants into the country, or conspired to assassinate a world leader. I was much too boring for that. But still, the government had documented my every cough and sneeze since the day I was born. And it could all be called up at a moment’s notice.